


Loss

by undun



Series: Losing and Gaining [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-03
Updated: 2012-02-03
Packaged: 2017-10-30 13:18:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/332157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/undun/pseuds/undun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Now there's the rest of his life to get through. How the hell was he supposed to do that?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> I believe this is my subconscious trying to deal with Reichenbach. Spoilers for Sherlock Series 1 and 2 (including The Reichenbach Fall).

**Part 1**  
  
He’d lost friends before. How could he not have experienced that, working in a battle zone? Yes, he was familiar with loss. With grief.  
  
This was different.  
  
This was not loss. This was  _devastation_. He couldn’t understand it, yet he understood it all too well. It wasn’t like the death of his parents; it wasn’t even like the death of an easy-going sexual partner in Afghanistan. The pain was worse than that from the bullet that had reduced his shoulder to a pulp – worse than the infection that had set in after wards.  
  
This pain was like dying. Slowly. From the inside.  
  
~  
  
He moved into a bedsit. He thought that he’d have to get a job at an A &E as soon as possible – his bank account only had so much accumulated. But after he’d paid the rental bond he’d looked at the balance and frowned in confusion. It clearly wasn’t  _his_  account. He’d looked up the statement on the Net:  **Estate S Holmes**  --  **credit**  -- 100 000. And just like that he was well off for the first time in his life.  
  
He didn’t know what to feel. Didn’t understand why there were tears tracking down his face. Why the hell was he  _upset_?  
  
So. No job needed for now. Time on his hands. What was he supposed to do?  
  
He walked a lot. Forgot to eat sometimes. His clothes got looser. He had money, bought jeans a size smaller, tucked his shirts in to fill the waist up. When he bothered to look in the mirror he saw a disturbed veteran. Someone still suffering. On a whim he dyed his hair dark brown. Covering the grey made him look impossibly older.  
  
  
One night he walked past some rent boys, glanced up at them with idle curiosity. So young! On impulse he walked into a nearby pharmacy (a security guard at night for this area) and bought a bulk pack of condoms, a couple of large tubes of some expensive lube. The assistant at the register gave him a bland look that spoke volumes.  
  
He took it all back around the block, held out the bag to one of the boys loitering, smoking like a grown up.  
  
‘Thought you lads could use this.’  
  
‘Wassit?’  
  
He shrugged, ‘About two weeks supply.’  
  
‘You serious, mate?’ The other boy had walked over and was peering in the bag. ‘It’s the good stuff,’ he said, pulling out a tube. ‘I’ll ‘ave it.’  
  
‘It’s yours. Share it ‘round if you like.’ He turned to go, stopped after a few steps. ‘If anything happens… if you don’t want to go to the hospital… well, I’m, I can. Just, just look for me. I’ll see what I can do.’  
  
It wasn’t breaking his Hippocratic oath, but it was stating the intent to break his professional code of practice. He found he didn’t care.  
  
~  
  
He was back in ten days with a canvas bag holding lube, condoms, vitamins, antibacterial hand wash. He’d even put in a box of surgical gloves. If they weren’t interested in the extra protection from infection, he hoped they would use them with clients just for the kink factor. There was time when he’d pleased someone enormously with a pair of gloves on his hands.  
  
There was a young man with a hacking cough. He winced at the sound. It could go to pneumonia if it wasn’t already on the way. John handed around his supplies, listened to the comments and jokes. As he had hoped, when they got their hands on the gloves, ‘Kinkaaaay!’ He smiled.  
  
The hacking cough continued and he peered at the young man. He’d avoided John and stood behind the other three boys ransacking the bag for more supplies. Suddenly he walked around behind John. ‘You a pimp or summit?’  
  
‘No. Doctor.’  
  
Another hacking fit took him and the youth almost bent double. John held his shoulder. ‘You need the hospital for that. Antibiotics.’  
  
‘Don’t be stupid. No ID. I got nuthin’.’  
  
John thought furiously. He was still registered at Sarah’s clinic. He could write a script for the medication, go and see Sarah and get it through the system there.  
  
‘Where do you live?’  
  
And that was how he came to be visiting a rent boy living in a communal squat (he didn’t think there were any squats left in London) and handing over a box of Amoxicillin. ‘Don’t try and flog them off for cash. You need every one of those capsules and you wouldn’t get much for them anyway.’ He handed over some painkillers too. ‘Don’t take more than two at once, every four hours. Drink water. Lots of water,’ he admonished.  
  
He looked down at the young man, feeling an unaccustomed sensation. He finally realized what it was. Worry.  
  
The lad was tall and he had dark hair.  
  
 _Not curly_  
  
He didn’t have old needle tracks and he didn’t sound posher than Prince William.  
  
Still.  
  
‘I’ll be back in two days. Get some soup,’ he said, pressing five pounds into the boy’s hand.  
  
That night he allowed himself to feel something other than bone deep sorrow and despair. He imagined Sherlock, all long and pale beside him. He imagined stroking along his back, cupping his arse in his hands, moving against him. Sweet and bitter at the same time, he came and cried until his nose was blocked and his pillow was drenched.  
  
~ end part 1


	2. Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now he had the rest of his life to get through. How the hell was he supposed to do that?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I believe this is my subconscious trying to deal with Reichenbach. Spoilers for Sherlock Series 1 and 2 (including The Reichenbach Fall).

Part 2  
  
When John returned to the squat the young man’s colour was back in his cheeks; his helpless hacking reduced to a chunky, unpleasant head cold. John took his temperature then watched him applying some black eyeliner in disbelief.  
  
‘You’re not going out tonight.’  
  
‘What? You my  _Daddy_  now?’  
  
‘No! No, it’s just… you could have a relapse, end up with pneumonia. You aren’t well,’ he insisted, hand on the boy’s bicep.  
  
‘I need the money, mate,’ he said, shrugging off John’s hand. ‘Gotta make a livin’, yeah?’ He sniffed mightily, ripped a piece of newspaper off the stack on the floor and spat into it, looked down at the result with eyebrows raised. ‘Should it be that colour?’ He held it out for John’s opinion.  
  
Small lie. ‘No. It really shouldn’t,’ John said with authority, looking down at the lurid green mucus – pretty much what he would have expected for another day or so. ‘You need more rest and soup. Let the capsules work properly.’  
  
‘I got no money. I gotta go out tonight.’ The youth shrugged with the fatalism of a much older man. ‘No choice.’  
  
‘I’ll give you some readies, tide you over for a few days,’ John blurted without thinking. He was desperate to take care of this lost kid. Reasons escaped him – why should he care? Perhaps because he himself was lost? Reasons could wait.  
  
‘I’m not taking a hand out, mate,’ the boy said gruffly. ‘I don’t want to be ownin’ nothin’ to nobody. I’ll pay you back for the drugs ‘n’ all.’  
  
John went to wave a hand dismissively, stopped just in time. He knew that tone – it was the same tone he’d used with Sherlock when he’d needed a loan and wouldn’t take money from him as a gift. His mouth twisted up in a bitter smile; here he was attempting to give away money in the same way. His life was a fuck up from start to finish. The only part that had made sense… the only way  _he’d_  made sense – was when he’d been with Sherlock.  
  
There had to be a way to handle this – the boy was for sale after all. ‘I could use some company,’ he ventured, thinking his way around the problem. ‘Would you come over to my flat, spend some time with me?’  
  
The boy studied his face for long seconds. He shrugged, his disinterest clothing him like a long, dark coat. ‘Yeah, okay. I’ll charge for it.’  
  
‘I know. Come on, we’ll get a cab around the corner.’  
  
~  
  
‘Well, this is my home, such as it is,’ John gestured around the tiny flat, closing the door behind him. He paused with his hand on the door. ‘I don’t know your name.’  
  
‘Paul.’  
  
‘Right. I’m, I’m… Harry.’  
  
Paul snorted, not believing him for an instant. John frowned and slapped his thigh lightly. ‘Sorry, I’ve been avoiding some people for a while. I’m cagey with my name these days.’  
  
‘You in trouble?’ Paul asked, walking around the flat, peering out of the window and poking his head into the bathroom. ‘Got the Law looking for you?’ Paul looked back over his shoulder at him. ‘Doesn’t matter to me, mate. I’ve had some run-ins, y’know?’  
  
John shook his head, ‘No, nothing like that. I’ve just had some friends looking for me, and I don’t want to be found.’ John knew that Mycroft probably knew exactly where he was. More than likely knew that he’d been befriending male prostitutes too. Strangely the thought didn’t bother him. He didn’t give a flying fuck what Mycroft thought, as long as he left him alone.  
  
Lestrade had texted him. John had acknowledged it, asked him to keep an eye on Mrs Hudson. Texted Harry that he was fine and needed to be alone – not to contact him unless she needed urgent help. He’d ignored the rest, deleting them as they appeared on his phone.  
  
He couldn’t stand to be around anyone who could guess at his pain. It made him feel exposed and ugly, as if he were walking through his days with a gaping hole in his torso, dripping blood and gore over his shoes.  
  
‘Secrets. I’m okay with secrets,’ Paul said, unbuttoning his shirt.  
  
John pulse kicked up. ‘What are you doing?’  
  
‘Gettin’ me kit off.’  
  
‘It’s bloody freezing. The heating’s only just turned on!’  
  
‘Straight under the duvet then?’ Paul asked, slanting his head towards John’s neatly made bed.  
  
‘No! I mean, yes, if you’re cold get under the covers. But you don’t have to take your clothes off, Paul. I just wanted company.’  
  
Paul’s fingers stilled on his shirt buttons. ‘Really?’ he asked, eyebrows tilting.  
  
It was nothing like Sherlock’s voice, but the expression was close enough for John’s heart to be fooled for just a second. He blinked slowly and let out a breath. ‘Really,’ he said, ‘Now, take your shoes off and hop in,’ he waved at the bed. ‘I’ll get you some chicken noodle.’  
  
He headed into the kitchenette, boiled some water and tipped it into a 2 minute noodle cup. He made a cup of tea for himself and carried both over to the bed. Paul was sat against the headboard, duvet up to his chest.  
  
‘Cheers,’ Paul said, taking the cup from him. ‘You got a telly?’  
  
The thought really hadn’t occurred. He thought of the TV sitting unused at Baker Street. Thought about all the news coverage after Sherlock’s suicide. ‘Uh, no.’  
  
‘You’re bloody hopeless, mate,’ Paul sneered, taking a gulp of chicken soup. ‘Jesus, this is good.’  
  
‘You’re welcome,’ John smiled. There was nowhere else to sit, so he sat down next to Paul on top of the covers.  
  
‘Don’t be stupid,’ Paul commented, tugging until he stood up, then drawing the duvet down. ‘Get in.’  
  
John stared at the bed. In bed with a male prostitute. Did he care? No. He toed off his shoes and climbed in beside the boy. ‘How old are you?’  
  
Paul laughed, ending on a choking cough. John wasn’t worried about catching his virus. His immune system was legendary. He got up and pulled a roll of toilet paper from under the sink. ‘Here,’ he said, tossing it to Paul. ‘Hack into that.’  
  
‘Yeah, ta,’ the boy replied, wiping tears from the corners of his eyes.  
  
He blew juicily and mopped his nose. He’d smudged his eye makeup. John thought he looked unbelievably innocent. Just a kid playing house.  
  
‘I’m old enough, y’know?’ he answered belatedly. ‘You won’t get into trouble with me.’  
  
‘I wasn’t going to – I’m not… Christ! You’re sick, for God’s sake!’  
  
Paul shrugged. ‘I’ve been done while I was out cold, mate. It doesn’t matter.’  
  
‘Shit.’ What could he say to that?  
  
‘That’s not me.’  
  
~  
  
They talked on and off for about an hour. Football, stupid politics, the impossibility of finding a steady job with the economy arse over tit.  _And the fucking weather, mate!_  
  
Paul dozed off holding the empty noodle cup. John eased it out of his hand and took it to the kitchen. He went into the bathroom, took a piss and brushed his teeth – an ingrained habit. He could do it absolutely stoned or absolutely bladdered.  
  
He walked slowly back to the bed and looked down at Paul. There was a slight flush over the young man’s cheeks, but when he held a hand to his forehead it was dry and warm. He looked at his watch and yawned. Nothing for it, he would have to share the bed with him. And really, what else did he think was going to happen? He huffed at himself softly and turned out the kitchenette light, leaving the bed lamp lit.  
  
It was a recent habit.  
  
He didn’t like the dark. He didn’t like surprises.  
  
He stripped down to pants and t-shirt and slid under the covers. He hoped he wouldn’t dream.  
  
~ end part 2


	3. Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now there's the rest of his life to get through. How the hell was he supposed to do that?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I believe this is my subconscious trying to deal with Reichenbach. Spoilers for Sherlock Series 1 and 2 (including The Reichenbach Fall).

Loss, Part 3

 

‘Woah! Easy, mate!’  
  
He struggled against the hands pulling at him, swung wildly–  
  
‘Fuck! Harry, wake up, you bastard!’  
  
The words didn’t make any sense at all to him, but the voice – the panic and worry – that got through.  
  
He was panting, every nerve tingling. ‘Sorry. Sorry,’ John breathed. He didn’t need to be told what had happened. Paul held his hand to his mouth.  
  
‘What?’ John gestured, still out of breath.  
  
‘You clobbered me, you piece of shit.’  
  
‘Sorry. I’m really sorry.’ John climbed out of bed, shivering. He went around to Paul’s side of the bed and gently pulled his hand down, away from his face. His lower lip had a stripe of blood across it, was swelling impressively. ‘Shit. I’ll get you some ice.’  
  
‘You fucking owe me some cash for this, mate. How’m I s’possed to work with this on me face?’ Paul whined. ‘Fucking ow!’  
  
‘Alright, you big girl. Keep your bra on,’ John responded absently, rooting through the freezer for a flexible pack – the bendy grey one would be good. He heard the unmistakable snigger of laughter and looked over his shoulder in surprise.  
  
Yes, Paul was laughing at him. John frowned. ‘You okay?’  
  
‘Yeah, Christ. You,’ Paul flapped his hand, ‘You must be a funny bugger when you aren’t creeping around in shitholes like this.’ Paul looked around the tiny one-room-fits-all with a jaundiced eye.  
  
‘Yeah, well.’ John found the ice pack, turned back to the bed. ‘We can’t all live in up-market squats with no running water or power, y’know.’ He angled Paul’s face toward the lamp, tore some loo paper off and dabbed at the split. Paul laughed again.  
  
‘Ow! Fucking fuck!’  
  
‘Hold still and stop talking.’ John held the ice pack up to Paul’s lip. ‘Here, hold that and I’ll get you some paracetamol.’  
  
He walked into the bathroom, turned on the light and opened the cabinet. Took the box out and closed the door. His face stared back at him like a stranger. Some things looked the same – the perspiration across his forehead, cold now; the darkness under the bags of his eyes; the deep-etched lines across his forehead. He had a stray thought, squashed it under his heel; he would  _not_  go back to Ella. Never. Never say those things that couldn’t be said. John spun on his heel and snagged a glass of water from the kitchen sink.  
  
‘Here, drink the lot,’ he instructed, popping out two pills from the packet and handing them over.  
  
‘Need the loo,’ Paul stated, struggling up from the bed. John took the ice pack from his hand while the boy swallowed the pills.  
  
He watched Paul’s throat bob around the water as he drank. Paul lowered the glass and caught his eyes before he thought to look away. Paul narrowed his eyes. ‘Something bad happened to you.’  
  
John stared after him as he went into the bathroom. He didn’t shut the door, took a long, heartfelt piss and then flushed John’s loo. John’s eyebrows climbed slightly at the sound of the sink taps. He hadn’t thought Paul would be that fastidious.  
  
John looked at his watch. Just after 2 o’clock. He might get some more sleep. He didn’t want to risk hitting out at Paul again – though one bad one per night seemed to be his usual thing. He wouldn’t sleep deeply enough to dream now.  
  
Paul stopped at the side of the bed. John didn’t even try to avoid staring as he unbuttoned his shirt, slid out of his jeans. No pants. Of course. John sighed softly.  
  
‘What happened to you, hey?’ Paul whispered, moving across the bed to John on his hands and knees.  
  
John shook his head slightly. ‘No,’ he murmured.  
  
‘Can’t say? That’s a’right,’ Paul breathed against his cheek, rubbing against him lightly.  
  
‘You don’t have to. Really,’ John protested, though he had the feeling that they had gone past the point of no return.  
  
Something of Paul’s bravado returned as he agreed, ‘I bloody know, mate. Now shu’ up and get your gear off.’  
  
~  
  
John wouldn’t let Paul rush him. If this was going to happen (and he should have seen the inevitability of it), then he was going to make it good. He wasn’t about to treat Paul like an animated sex toy, rent boy or not. John dug out his supplies – the gloves even made an appearance – and focused on breaking Paul down to incoherency. Roughly thirty minutes of relentless effort and he had the young man right where he wanted him: begging for it.  
  
John slid home without effort, Paul flexing around him, writhing with pleasure.  
  
‘God-yeah! More-more, gimme more!’  
  
John almost laughed at the boy spread out underneath him, unselfconsciously wanton and demanding. It was strange how he reminded him of–  
  
He groaned – half pleasure, half torment. John picked up his pace and reached down to stroke Paul’s cock, rigid and straining and Paul too busy grappling with John’s shoulders and neck to grip it properly. He gave a loud groan at John’s touch.  
  
‘Fuck, fuck, fuck!’  
  
‘Shh! The walls… aren’t… thick,’ John gasped, blinking sweat out of his eyes.  
  
Paul’s head thrashed on the pillow and he leaned up to bite at John’s mouth, split lip forgotten. ‘Don’t… fucking…  _care!_ ’ And he came in John’s hand.  
  
John closed his eyes, groaning while Paul’s muscles clenched and clenched around him. ‘Oh, God,’ he whispered, straining not to pound through it.  
  
‘Come on, then. Come on,’ Paul panted, squeezing around him again.  
  
‘Wait. Wait a minute,’ he said, pulling slowly away. He rolled onto his back beside Paul.  
  
Paul’s legs dropped limply to the bed. ‘Wha’? What’s wrong?’  
  
John huffed and smiled at him. ‘I’m an old man. Need a breather,’ he explained.  
  
‘Rubbish. I mean, you  _look_  old–”  
  
‘Cheers for that!’ John protested.  
  
‘–but, y’know… you’re fit, like.’  
  
John peered at him. Was he blushing or setting up a temperature? ‘Uh, thanks?’  
  
‘Fuck off,’ Paul said, sitting up and blowing his nose into a handful of loo roll. He leaned around and inspected John’s crotch. ‘That good for anything?’  
  
He hadn’t lost his erection. His staying power had once been a thing of legend too. ‘Maybe,’ he smiled. ‘Aren’t you sore?’  
  
Paul rolled his eyes. ‘I do this for a living, mate.’ He moved back onto the bed, stretched out against John’s side. His toes hung over the end of the bed. He pressed his lips softly against John’s shoulder, his tongue licking over the ugly scar. ‘Is this it?’  
  
John thought for a second. ‘No. That’s old.’  
  
‘Okay,’ Paul nodded. ‘It’s somewhere I can’t see.’  
  
John nodded, not trusting his voice, feeling the burn at the back of his throat. He pushed at Paul’s shoulder, rolled him over to his side. Snugged himself in behind him. And being a pro at the game, Paul hefted his leg up, gave him unimpeded access.  
  
~  
  
‘Oh, oh…’  
  
‘I’m gunna come again,’ Paul whined. ‘Jeeezuz!’  
  
‘Sher–”  
  
‘I can feel you, ah fuck!’  
  
John panted like a blown horse against Paul’s neck, loosened his fingers from their death grip around Paul’s lean hip, his bony shoulder. He stroked slowly down Paul’s side, the boy shuddering under his hand. He leaned his forehead against the back of Paul’s neck, struggling to hold himself together. He started when Paul’s hand landed on his waist, the boy twisting slightly to reach him.  
  
‘It’s okay, mate. Let it go.’  
  
John blinked in the unbearable light of the lamp. A sob caught in his throat. He held it there, gritting his teeth. If he let go…  
  
He pulled away from Paul gently, patting at his side, his leg. Trying to convey his gratitude without words. His breath rasped out painfully.  
  
Paul sat up. John was peripherally aware of his wince and made a mental note to inspect him for damage. He was so young.  
  
‘Harry. Harry, you gotta let it go, mate,’ Paul’s beautifully warm voice surrounded him, pushed him, with ignorant concern, over the ramparts he’d carefully reinforced, stone by stone.  
  
‘No, no, no–’  
  
‘C’mere. You’re a mess,’ Paul pressed a handful of loo paper into his hands – he hadn’t realised he was crying. Paul slipped the condom off with quiet commentary; ‘Bloody hell, who you been savin’ it up for?’  
  
Paul padded over to the sink and refilled the glass. ‘Here, drink it all, now,’ he instructed, producing two paracetamol pills.  
  
John sucked air between his teeth and did as he was told. ‘Brat.’  
  
‘Shithead.’  
  
God, it felt good to laugh.  
  
~end

  



	4. Coda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now there's the rest of his life to get through. How the hell was he supposed to do that?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I believe this is my subconscious trying to deal with Reichenbach. Spoilers for Sherlock Series 1 and 2 (including The Reichenbach Fall). A sort of epilogue...

Loss – Coda  
  
John woke up before Paul. Squinted at the dawning sun through puffy eyes, body aching in long-forgotten ways. Paul was a sprawler. He eased a long leg off his thigh and slipped from the bed. Looked down for a minute at Paul’s disheveled head buried in his pillow. His heart swelled and shrunk, like time-lapse footage on a piece of fruit.  
  
Paul was no substitute. There was never any doubt about that. But Paul allowed him to  _care_. That seemed important, much as it hurt like fuckery. John shook his head; too much bloody thinking. He pulled on his pants and jeans, t-shirt and jumper. Grabbed his wallet. A shower could wait – he needed to walk. At the door he stopped, opened his wallet, took out a handful of bills. Didn’t bother counting – it was enough. He stood near the bed, irresolute. Was it insulting Paul? No. He needed the money and they had made an arrangement.  
  
He had to see things from the boy’s point of view – normal etiquette did not apply. John slid the money carefully under one outstretched hand. Closed the door to the flat softly behind him. He doubted Paul would steal anything – nothing in the flat was worth anything more than the cash John had left him. The worst he could do would be change the locks and take over the lease.  
  
John briefly examined the pleasure that the thought gave him. ‘You’re an idiot,’ he murmured as he turned the corner. An early morning jogger looked back over his shoulder at him, eyebrows raised. John bared his teeth and shrugged. ‘Private conversation,’ he explained. The guy jogged on, increasing his pace.  
  
Did he really look that scary? John remembered the face in the bathroom mirror.  
  
~  
  
John found he had an appetite. He plowed into a huge breakfast at an early morning café catering to financial wannabes and railway workers. Interesting mix. John studied them all, deducing their lives as they passed by. Too easy.  
  
He surprised himself when he felt almost uncomfortably full. Couldn’t remember if he’d kept his ‘fuller figure’ jeans… Spent some time daydreaming about being a contestant on  _Biggest Fattie, Loser, Fuck-up,_ whatever it was. He was smiling, had to stop in order to get his mouth around his espresso. That was different.  
  
~  
  
He’d wandered into the better part of town, ambling down Oxford Street and picturing all the calories floating about in his bloodstream. He crossed the road to avoid heading towards Baker Street.  
  
He paused outside a small, trendy hairdressers in a side street. A man popped his head out of the door and wrinkled his nose at him.  
  
‘Darling, what the  _fuck_  have you done to your hair?’  
  
It surprised a giggle out of John. ‘Honestly, I have no idea,’ he smiled back.  
  
The man waved him through the door. ‘Come in, come in. I can’t let this go on and I need some good karma, for fuck’s sake.’  
  
A full hour later (he may have dozed off under some plastic wrap and a heat lamp), John left with his hair tinted back to a dirty blonde. At least the grey wouldn’t stand out so much as it grew back out. He’d been shaved too, the hairdresser asking if he needed shaving anywhere else. The overdone wink made John smile.  
  
He was starting to feel like John Watson again. The man most mistaken for  _gay-lover-of-Sherlock Holmes_  ever. And didn’t that stab like a rusty knife now?  
  
~  
  
He let himself back into the flat just before midday. Paul was freshly washed, dressed, and looking through the contents of his beside table drawer.  
  
John froze, keys in hand.  
  
‘Your name’s not Harry, Harry.’  
  
‘Yeah, it isn’t,’ he affirmed, ‘You knew that.’  
  
‘I didn’t know you were fucking John Watson!’  
  
John crossed to dump his keys on the counter. He leaned on his hands for a beat, then turned back to Paul. The young man stood up straight – he really was tall – and walked over to plant himself right in front of John.  
  
‘You fixed your hair up.’  
  
John blinked, trying to catch up to the conversation. He was sure he used to be smarter than this. He nodded slowly.  
  
‘Makes you look more like that,’ Paul said, holding out a newspaper clipping.  
  
‘Ah,’ he sighed. It was a photo of Sherlock and John. Probably the most incriminating, which was why he’d kept it. Sherlock smiling with that coolly distant expression, John staring across and up (always  _up_ ) with a look of utter adoration.  
  
He might as well have gone down on bended knee.  
  
‘He’s dead. Topped himself.’  
  
John nodded again, squeezed his eyes shut. He could feel the air shift as Paul moved slightly.  
  
‘The newspapers said he was a liar,’ Paul said quietly. No inflection. John couldn’t tell what he thought of that, and Paul’s opinions were rarely hidden.  
  
‘They’re the fuckin’ liars,’ Paul suddenly hissed close to his face.  
  
Right then. John opened his eyes. He should have guessed this one. Rent boy. Homeless network. Baker Street Irregulars.  
  
Idiot.  
  
He let out his breath slowly. Studied Paul’s face; so young, so old. So beautiful. And so much like–  
  
‘You loved him.’  
  
‘Yes,’ John said without thinking, the emotion so close to breaking through and swamping his reason.  
  
‘I’m nothing like him,’ Paul said, a note of puzzlement in his voice, a quizzical tilt to his head.  
  
‘I know,’ John lied. He shrugged. ‘You’ll do.’  
  
Paul’s smile was wide enough to show the gap at the back that John had felt with his tongue last night. He’d be needing an orthodontist.  
  
Paul turned to pick up his shoes. ‘You know you left me a clean thousand, doncha?’  
  
John huffed and replied, ‘Man’s gotta eat,’ in a fair imitation of Paul’s mixed up eastie accent.  
  
Paul laughed as he shoved his feet into his sneakers. ‘That’s a lot of fucking crumpets, mate!’  
  
He really should start counting his money. Maybe he should get a job.


End file.
